


Cutting a Dash

by mnemosyne



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:37:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of ficlets based on <i>The Musketeers</i>. See individual chapter notes for specific warnings, pairings etc.</p><p>1. family - Gen, all the boys.<br/>2. untitled - Louis/Anne, post 1x09<br/>3. the long game - Gen, Porthos & d'Artagnan<br/>4. a lesson - Gen, Aramis & d'Artagnan</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which d'artagnan is a tactile drunk and aramis and porthos are the worst friends ever

Aramis runs a finger over d’Artagnan’s cheekbone, and the young man leans into it, a laugh on his lips. He closes his own hand around Aramis’ and brings it flush against his cheek. It’s warm, his skin, and trembling appealingly with a half-suppressed chuckle.

“It’s cold,” d’Artagnan says, “surely you can’t impress lovers with hands that cold.”

“They warm,” Aramis replies, retracting his hand. He tops up d’Artagnan’s cup and the two toast each other before the Gascon downs his. “Though not as quickly as your face, it seems. I might take this as a compliment.”

“I wouldn’t,” d’Artagnan replies, “I’m drunk.”

Aramis sits back and sighs dramatically, gazing off into the distance at apparently nothing, the tavern’s candlelight lending a golden cast to his features that he is almost certainly fully aware of. Porthos and Athos share a look over the table. “You could at least pretend to have care for my fragile ego.”

“Your ego is about as fragile as d’Artagnan’s skull,” Porthos says. The man in question laughs, then scowls deep at him. “Now that you should take as a compliment.”

“It seems it’s the best I am going to get this night.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Athos remarks. His elbows are leaned heavy on the table, both hands clasped tight around his cup. Aramis shrugs and acquiesces with grin. d’Artagnan nods too, a gesture slightly too large, deliberate, like he’s finding it slightly more difficult to remember quite what order all the movements go in.

“Are you all right?” Athos asks. d’Artagnan nods again and twists himself around in his seat to face him; the wide arc of an elbow prompting Porthos to lean across the table and rescue a precariously situated wine-bottle. He waggles the bottle at Aramis, who holds his already drained cup out for a refill.

“ _Fine_ ,” d’Artagnan says emphatically. He puts a hand on Athos’ arm and squeezes. His brows are knitted together and when he speaks again, there is a sad edge in his tone. “I’m not a  _child_. You didn’t ask Aramis or Porthos if _they_  were all right.”

“I’m fine, father,” Aramis says. There is a low rumble from Porthos’ side of the table, and he doesn’t respond. He’s entirely too busy laughing and utterly failing at pretending not to.

“Please don’t call me that  _ever_  again,” Athos replies. He looks down at d’Artagnan’s hand, still resting on his arm; the young man’s fingers are curling against the leather and the slight he was so concerned about a moment ago has apparently been quite forgotten.

“This is soft,” says d’Artagnan.”I thought it’d be all-” he pulls a face. “ _You know._ ” He rubs his thumb along a crease and regards it with a serious expression unmistakeably  _d’Artagnan_  in its intensity. “It’s a fine jacket, Athos. I like it very much.”

“This is where you say thank you,” Aramis supplies. “For receiving a lovely compliment.”

“Thank you,” says Athos, and sounds like he’s saying something that doesn’t quite mean the same thing. “I’m glad you appreciate my sleeve.”

“I like all your clothes, now I come to think of it,” d’Artagnan announces, and Athos’ shoulders slump. Porthos scoots his stool against Aramis’ and they sit shoulder to shoulder to regard the scene. Baleful eyes are met with beatific smiles and two heads resting against each other.

Athos looks something like a Briard confronted with an insistent kitten; his frame is tense, alarmed, but he doesn’t appear to know how to move away. He watches d’Artagnan’s movements with a wary eye. d’Artagnan doesn’t appear to have noticed. His fingers walk up Athos’ arm, tracing themselves over the embossed lines of his shoulder guard.

“You’ll have one of those soon enough,” Porthos calls out, and d’Artagnan’s head hangs forward. The long edges of his hair almost brush Athos’ arm. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“If you are going to say something maudlin, don’t,” Athos tells him. d’Artagnan smiles and looks up again. His face seems to glow, burning with something that Athos understands more than he wants to say; and for all the events of the evening, it cannot only be the drink.

“I shall be happy if it suits me half as well,” he says. His hand slips to rest on the back of Athos’ chair, almost against the curve of the other man’s spine, and he turns back to the table, shaking his head. “Of course, I will be happier if Aramis hasn’t finished the wine.”

“I could not be so cruel,” Aramis tells him, and slides another bottle across. Athos catches it and pours d’Artagnan a healthy measure. “Not to you, brother.”

“Brother,” echoes d’Artagnan.

“Brother,” Athos says. He does not tense again at the light touch upon his back.


	2. Untitled Louis/Anne, post 1x09

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for darlingdukeofsuffolk, who prompted Louis/Anne. This is a tag to 1x09.

“Don’t you find it too quiet?” Louis’ lip curled as he regarded the view, a small wrinkle forming on the bridge of his nose. Anne wondered if he was aware of it at all, how easily he could be read. _Probably not_. She watched him for a moment, the way his tongue pressed at the corner of his mouth, the dart of an eye that lingered on a jewel at her sleeve, her neck, never quite up at her face. He was trying, she told herself, and relented in her silence.

“It’s peaceful,” she replied. “After a day of everyone talking at you and over you and through you. Advice and vain compliments. Don’t you find you need to be alone with your thoughts?”

“Nobody talks over me, I’m the king.” Louis said, and stretched himself against the balcony. “Besides,” he added, turning towards her, “I rather like vain compliments.” He grinned; with his hip leaning nonchalantly against the stonework, and the wide, open expression on his face, he reminded her of a boy she had once met, and long since forgotten. He had always had an infectious smile.

Somewhere below, on the paths around the palace, a small figure was leading horses, and Anne’s attention was momentarily turned away, watching the small procession, the not-yet quite steady pace of the younger animal, a sleek black thing with a restless look, and the gentle, slowing gait of the old, a friend she knew well, and shared many long afternoons with when she had needed the escape from looming walls and magnificent doors. She felt the shift as her husband moved closer to her, the silk of his sleeve not quite touching her bare arm.

“I fear my Hero is not much longer for this world,” she murmured. “She does not walk as comfortably as she once did.”

“We will find you another horse,” Louis replied. His fingernail scratched idly at a patch of lichen, flaking orange from grey-white stone. “We will find you whatever you want, Anne.”

The use of her name caused her to look up, back at him. The word sounded heavy in his mouth, a weight of some unspoken feeling behind it. It surprised her. The king had never been a man who could hide his emotions, and here she found she could not read it at all. An impulse seized her, and she moved her hand to the top of his, stilling his fingers.

“Whatever you want,” Louis repeated. There was no trace of mirth in his face now, his breathing was deep, deliberate and slow. She shook her head.

“I want for nothing,” she assured him. “At least, nothing our riches have been able to afford us yet.” She stepped forwards, allowed his hand, still gritty with dust, to slide up her arm, over the lace and beads at her shoulder, until it rested heavy against the curve of her neck. He pulled her towards him, gentle as the warm currents of a forest stream, until their foreheads touched, until his hair brushed her cheek, until she could not tell whose tears ran wet down her cheeks.

“That is not true,” he said, a low, quavering whisper in the space between them, “but at least now we have time.”


	3. the long game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt from raouldehadleyfraser: "Porthos decides to teach d'Artagnan a bit more about street fighting because he can see the kid's feeling down and whenever he felt like that, punching things always seemed to help - maybe it would help the kid, too."

 

d’Artagnan’s foot comes down too heavily on the baked earth and he stumbles, flinging one arm out to break his fall. He lets out a choked noise as he thuds bodily to the floor, growls low in his throat as he rolls into it, onto his back and over, avoiding the foot that slams down into the space he has just vacated.  A cloud of dusty soil rises in his wake.

“Careful!” he protests, leaping to his feet. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Isn’t that the point?” Porthos jumps back, avoids the swing of d’Artagnan’s arm. “You piss off a lot of people and they don’t all like you as much as I do.”

“Thanks for that.”

Somehow, Porthos manages to shrug and throw a punch at the same time; d’Artagnan ducks, a little too slowly and the blow glances off his shoulder. His lungs are burning, sweat stings his eyes, but he refuses to give in. He lunges for Porthos again, but the other man sidesteps him with ease.

“Your stubbornness isn’t going to serve you at all if you drop halfway through the fight,” Porthos says. He’s breathing is heavier than normal, but his eyes glint with mischief and intent. If he is tiring like d’Artagnan, he isn’t showing it. Swallowing back a sharp-sour bile taste in his mouth, d’Artagnan searches his body, his movements for a weakness.

“Are you _mortal_?” he demands at last, which provokes a laugh. Porthos straightens, and gladly the younger man follows his example. “Seriously, are you human at all because this is getting ridiculous.”

Porthos snorts. “I have stamina,” he says. “And that is something you’re going to have to work on.”

“I have stamina.”

“You have pig-headedness and a peculiarly distant relationship with your own sense of mortality,” Porthos says. He tosses d’Artagnan a bottle . “That isn’t the same thing.”

“Worked for me so far,” d’Artagnan mutters and takes a swig. He waits, watching Porthos, until his friend sits down, kicks his leg out as he leans against a tree stump. Porthos closes his eyes in the sunlight and shifts into the cooler shade; only then does d’Artagnan let himself relax, sink down in his own patch of shade.

“That’s true,” Porthos replies without opening his eyes. “A lot of fights, you get that advantage early.” He waves a hand. “They’re down.” He sighs. “They are rarely the satisfying ones.”

“I look to win.”

The side of Porthos’ mouth quirks up. “That’s an amateur mistake.”

“What do you want?”

“Not to lose.”

d’Artagnan groans, loudly, and thunks his head backwards against his tree. “Please don’t talk in gibberish and pretend its profound. I get enough of that elsewhere.”

“There will always be a stronger man, a faster man, a steadier man than you,” Porthos says, “trick is, don’t let him find out from you which he is.” He kicks at d’Artagnan’s foot. “You have speed on me, but you wear yourself out too quickly. And then you have to rely on power against-” He indicates his body with a grand gesture. “Well, it’s not going to go well for you, is it?”

“I suppose not.”

There is silence for a few moments, save only d’Artagnan’s breathing slowly returning to normal. He wipes the back of his hand against his brow, grimaces at the streak of dust he can feel he has left behind. His skin itches with drying sweat. “I am going to throw myself in a lake and only emerge when winter sets in.”

“You’d get your uniform wet,” Porthos reaches out for the water d’Artagnan is holding, and catches it with one hand. “And we both know how delicate you are about that sort of thing.”

d’Artagnan’s lips purse.

“Don’t make that face at me, young man,” Porthos warns with the neck of the bottle. “I’ll be forced to thump you.”

“You are far too comfortable, and so am I.”

d’Artagnan’s own foot reaches out then, the toe of his boot pressing light against Porthos’ ankle. He lets it rest there, an insistent pressure until he looks over at him again. “Thank you, Porthos. This was a great distraction. I needed it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Porthos replies, innocence etched into every line of his face. “This was just a lesson in brawling. I am going to go to sleep now. You can think about my advice.”

“And make sure nobody murders you whilst you nap. That’d just be embarrassing.”

“Damn right it would.”


	4. A Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan & Aramis and trying not to be annoyed with one another

They’ve been at this for hours, the courtyard smells of metal and smoke; in the heat of the afternoon sun, the scent hangs like a tangible cloud around them. Aramis’ skin feels gritty, and it itches with the sweat pooling underneath his shirt. Still, he stretches, ignoring the pop and protest of his muscles, turns, and starts to explain to d’Artagnan why his latest  _also_  shot went wide of its mark.

D’Artagnan isn’t even looking at him.

Aramis casts a glance over his shoulder, following the boy’s gaze. A pretty woman, dark curling hair cascading down over bared shoulders. She is not looking into the garrison, but there’s a dark blush on the cheek he can see, and a tiny near-shy smirk on d’Artagnan’s lips; he doesn’t have to guess at what just passed between them. At another time perhaps, he mightn’t have minded, might have let d’Artagnan indulge in the passing flight of fancy – and Heaven knows he needs it right now. At another time, perhaps, when he wasn’t trying to teach something important to someone who  _isn’t paying attention_.

He coughs. After a beat, d’Artagnan turns back to him, still smiling that _infuriating_  smile.

“Sorry, Aramis. You of all people understand, surely?”

“Not right now I don’t,” Aramis snaps. The smile disappears. He sighs, heavily, runs a gloved hand through his hair. “This is an important lesson.”

“I’m a good shot, Aramis,” d’Artagnan argues, only halfway to heat. The day saw his best a long time ago. “This was a bad round.”

It’s not far off the truth, but Aramis prickles at the tone, at the dismissal in it. 

“You’ve good aim and no finesse.” His lips purse. “I’m only trying to help.”

D’Artagnan snorts, “I’m not your  _protégé,_ Aramis.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have plenty to learn.” Aramis proffers a gun, and cannot help the flicker of a glance to the peep of bandage that d’Artagnan still has wrapped around his torso. “Things which might save your life one day. Though at this rate you won’t have to worry about me weeping at your funeral.”

There is a pause for a moment, before d’Artagnan reaches out, takes the gun from Aramis’ hands. He bumps slightly against the older man, bows his head before looking back up. The concern in his dark eyes makes something in Aramis’ gut clench. He sucks a breath in through his teeth and turns away, shields his eyes with his hand, though the sun is not quite at the right angle to be causing him pain.

“Show me again,” d’Artagnan says, gently.


End file.
